


A Crown Of Blood And Velvet

by fewlmewn (Shouriko)



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Age Difference, Character Study, Denial of Feelings, Domestic Fluff, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Non-Consensual Body Modification
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-19
Updated: 2016-04-18
Packaged: 2018-06-03 03:40:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6595108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shouriko/pseuds/fewlmewn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the first time in his life, nothing is like it seemed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Crown Of Blood And Velvet

**Author's Note:**

> I still don't know where this story will go because I still have some fine-tuning to do in the relationship to figure out what might or might not happen, and what should and shouldn't at any rate ever, ever happen. So I'm working to make it work. But so far, this "prologue" turned out pretty well.

 

When you first meet him, you don't really meet him.

You don't see him, you don't hear him. It's like there is a void where he's supposed to be. As if the arrows fly right out of the Fade and into bodies that stand, bloody, not having yet realized they're already corpses.

When you notice something strange in the air, a corner of a bow making itself manifest from behind a twisting tree, a little bare foot sticking out from the thick bushes, a light brown lick of ruffled hair camouflaged between the branches, it's too late. The bow will be already pointed at your chest, the foot pivoting towards you to square him in the bog, uncaring of the slime of seaweeds and the grime of dirt and sand, and that mass of wild curls just enough out of his way to let his cunning umber eyes walk the path from the shadow to you.

It doesn't matter how fast, sharp-witted or perceptive you are, he'll catch you one breath too late for you to escape.

When you first meet him, you're the damsel in distress. You act like you wanted to make a show of muscle, mind or might, but you end up with half your opponents felled by his arrows, creamy fletches sprayed with bright blood, whether you like it or not. And your axe, or your spell, your sword - they all fall upon a walking dead. There’s no point in lying, not to him nor to yourself. Truth is, you were a cornered rat before he came to your aid, without even wanting anything in return. Not yet.

 

Once you've seen him though, coast clear of all danger, his quick feet move cheerfully, almost recklessly around you. Like he can somehow sense danger like a sinewy fawn, owning the brush like he was born under that shade, amongst those rocks and splintered driftwood. He knows where to step, how to move, better than you could ever hope doing. He knows you, even, and he’s not afraid of coming closer. For the first time, you don’t have to reassure those in front of you, or dissipate rotten thoughts that always, inevitably, fester when you say who you are.

When you meet him, he offers his hand, a small thing, but sure and resolute. Calloused fingers melting into soft, fair palms, sweaty with an exertion that transforms into effortless skill when it reaches his relaxed expression. Perpetually half-lidded eyes, that lose and gain focus as his surroundings change, as the woods and targets shift away from the picture in favour of warm hearths and welcome company.

Round cheeks, with a dusting of fine freckles, so small and dense you believe, at first, he must've hid underground to shoot so undisturbed. But when you swipe you thumb across his nose, later, in a motion all too patronizing but so natural and you realize he must be little over eighteen, he looks so innocent and breath-taking and tangible.

Even later, you find him - if you can find him at all - dangling his legs down a thick branch, over a drop that would make even the bravest man’s blood curdle and their guts twist in knots. But he’s no man. He’s just a kid, you keep telling yourself. When he looks at you and sees right through, you tell yourself it’s because he doesn’t know better, not because he has everything figured out. Must be.

So when he climbs so far up no one would even dare thinking of looking there, a small paintbrush and palette of pigmented paste in one hand, the map with fresh groves and ponds in the other, you convince yourself he does that out of recklessness.

His surety starts to scare you, so you have to make up excuses. It never happened to you before and it’s as unsettling as it is refreshing.

You catch yourself, every time, just short of underestimating him, holding your thoughts when he cocks his head like a pup, waiting for you to slip but already knowing you won’t. Curious and cocky, but not arrogant.

Like a seer, with his predictions and knowledge - above everyone else but not expecting to be heeded or praised. And you realize, once more, you had started wondering how a person so small and green is capable of knowing so much about so many things, once again. The next thought that crosses your mind is that it’s no secret, now, how all around you are used to marvel at your size, and strength. Because you’re doing the same others did to you, with him.

It’s wrong, but it’s the kind of wrongness that makes your skull buzz with a new energy, as new connections begin to form.

Your brutal honesty and consideration, in the face of your bulk, are as illogical to everyone you’ve met before as his strength and experience, packed together under such a delicate and innocent front, feel to you. And it feels good, to have your wits challenged so.

He scrawls away rivers and bridges and marshes with his grey-blues and fern greens, joyously trading jokes with this or that errand boy, and he runs and dodges blows and plucks the thorns from his feet after going a mile with them seated between his toes in the same heartbeat.

You find out he’s indeed capable of putting everyone in their places, and he puts you there too, when he tells you with no half words that he needs time to find his own space as well.

You don’t see him as a small thing that can break at the first gust of air from you lungs anymore. Even if he heaves when you offer him the strongest spirit you can find, now you know better than to believe him as soft and frail inside as he appears on the surface. He made you understand you had your presumptions one surprising shattered misconception after the other. It’s not the first time you see an elf have strength. You know they can wield broadswords like everybody else. This type of force is different. And he has it, and he’s shown it to you.

He steps from tree to tree, gingerly when he’s confused and a choice needs to be made. You know he cries when someone cannot be saved, but he’s never seen weeping. Despite everything else, even he has these moments when, no matter who you are, you just can’t help feeling helpless. And they pile up, eventually. And going for a drink is not enough.

At some point you door creaks open, a trembling shadow against a backdrop of wood, dyed in orange hues from the dying fire pit coming from downstairs. You rise on your elbows, the one eye cracked open to look at him, but there’s nothing much to see.

He drops his cloak, the one he must’ve used to shield himself from the midnight air on his way from his quarters, and stands there. Always barefooted, brown mop ruffled with loose curls reaching his jaw, he moves, slowly, silently towards your bed. His white undershirt sways with each padded step, and you wish the night was younger to have enough time to hold those milky thighs.

With one foot to the floorboards and one knee over the mattress, folded beside your hand in a position that would leave nothing to the imagination, but that darkness contributes in keeping shielded from view, he whispers, voice soft and pleading.

“I can’t sleep.”

After all, despite your unsure dance around him, despite the missteps, he’s chosen you. And at this point you’ve started doubting your infallible ability to create a safe space for everyone who seeks one, because he defies laws you used to believe in until you met him. Will you be able to give him what he needs? Can you protect him? Does he even need protecting, you start asking yourself then. But as the blanket rustles and the mattress dips under his light weight , you decide that’s a problem for later. You’ll work it out together, if it’s meant to be.

“Come here, little one.”

He’s so cold and smooth, like pebbles reshaping under your fingers, fitting his curves right into yours, like pieces clicking together, softly. One leg under him and the other kicked across your naked limbs, both feet frozen where they touch your meaty thighs, sliding over and under your weight like waves. His taut torso raises peacefully along your ribs, pecking and tapping your side like a small bird. And his innocent face tilts up to you with dark, sleepy eyes looking into your.

“I’m so tired… ”

“Get some rest, I’m right here.”

And you hold him through the night, as innocently as possible. A careful hand petting his hair and the fine line of his neck,  holding his arm where it follows the line of your pectorals to your heart. You do so, unmoving, the deep rumble of your breathing lulling him through a peaceful night of sleep after so many troubled weeks and months. You do what he asked of you without complaining, even as your half-rigid length swells along his leg, poking at the hem of his crinkled tunic, well-aware that anything beyond that line is forbidden.

You lie awake for the most part, only getting a few hours in at the break of dawn. While you lie in complete darkness with his soft body sliding against yours, steadily growing warmer and plastering itself closer and closer, you realize nothing else might come out of this. You’ve spent all your life reading others, and you chastise yourself for not having seen how things are now. Only morning will tell what he really needs from you.

Then he raises, and swipes the remnants of sleep out of his eyes.

“Thank you, Iron Bull.” And with that he’s gone, dark cloak draped across his shoulders and kept pursed together, tightly.

You find him in the tavern when you get down for breakfast, crossed legged on a chair beside Sera, cheerful and loose-limbed like he hasn’t been in far too long, completely oblivious to the fact that he still doesn’t have any smallclothes under his meagre tunic and mantle. A satisfied chuckle leaves you as you down your first pint. It’s 5 o’clock somewhere, and you have a long day ahead.

 

Rumours spread about the two of you, and you catch yourself wishing something had actually happened to be worth all the fuss. But he doesn’t seem to mind, and soon all the voices die down, even as he occasionally enters a full tavern from your quarters, dressed in nothing but an oversized shirt and linen breeches. One time, Sera eyes him and bursts out, asking him how he does it. You hear him say “Do what?” and you can’t help but laugh at her impression of a “Qunari fucking a tiny elf” – her words. He replies, giggling back right at her, with an “Oh, we don’t do that.” and she keeps pestering him about what they do _do_ , then, if not that.

He doesn’t answer, and keeps sketching nugs and other lowland animals in his leather journal, instead, shaking his head with a bright smile. And you pretend you don’t feel a stab of want, deep in your belly.

 

-

 

“Are you awake?”

At least you can still be there for him. Anything he needs. If this is what he needs, he shall have you.


End file.
